


Over This Summer Bright

by jusrecht



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-03
Updated: 2014-08-03
Packaged: 2018-02-11 15:24:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2073261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hibari sings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Over This Summer Bright

Dino doesn’t remember falling asleep. He remembers being cradled in the warmth of half-consciousness, too drunk with life, both in satiation of the body and the fullness of a heart next to one’s beloved. An empty afternoon spreads across his naked back much like these sheets do, a comfort’s whisper, soft if foreign. The heartbeat resounding under his cheek is a lullaby, slow and steady.

What tips the scale and sends him floating down one end and not the other is either the voice or the fingers. He thinks the latter comes first. His eyes remain closed, a thin disguise but nevertheless effective as long as his breathing doesn't speed or falter. Kyouya’s touch is always a claim, or at least an attempt of such; this touch is no different save for the quantity of gentleness, a strange glove on a hand unused to the working of kindness. His fingers make a fine mess of Dino’s hair, then smooth it down with a gentle stroke, tousle it more only to have them once again tamed—and these regular, repeated motions speak more than meets the eye. Kyouya only endures tedium for things he cares about: Namimori’s grounds, for which he makes his round every morning and evening with clockwork precision, is one.

Dino cannot linger in his new privilege for long, his attention soon arrested by another. Kyouya’s voice, he always thinks, is perfectly tuned for deep purrs and ominous growls. But this song starts out soft, tickling silence to a reluctant withdrawal, and remains so throughout as if to deny him the pleasure of listening. The melody is almost familiar, triggered by memories old and crippled, of childhood, long-forgotten summers, and cluttered innocence. Dino smiles.

It ends as suddenly as it started. The static hum of the air conditioner comes to the fore now that Kyouya has stopped singing; only the fingers remain in the tangle of his hair, no longer moving but still there. Dino raises his face, catches dark eyes.

“Why did you stop?”

Kyouya plays the uninterested part with ease. “I don’t remember the rest.”

“Then sing me another song.”

His lips twist into a cruel arc, refusal first exposed in his expression before verbal means carry the words, but Dino is in no mood for hard bargains. He slinks down, disappearing beneath thin sheets, and nuzzles the curve of his lover’s hips. Kyouya’s hand is already a claw when he moves to his true objective.

This is a different song altogether, poised elegance and controlled pitch abandoned, stirring passions in their place. Kyouya thinks he is quiet, but sounds are not always voices. Dino revels instead in the meeting of sheets and skin, the tussle between hair and pillow, the dip of mattress and springs beneath the rebelling arch of Kyouya’s back. Each movement is a caress to his ears as he licks, sucks, and gently tongues the hardening flesh between his teeth, waiting.

Words will have stopped him, he thinks, but Kyouya is determined to play this game of silence. When his lips part, breath ghosting too quickly, it is almost loud enough, and Dino hums.

His final sigh is nothing like the calm, powerful note at the end of a song; it trembles, wavers about his lips as his voice threatens to break free. Dino swallows—and a moan _does_ break free, a half-strangled sound which justifies the absence of the rest. He closes his eyes, savours his triumph as it echoes in his head; he only lets go after the grip in his golden hair has slackened.

Kyouya’s cheeks are slightly flushed, his eyes still tightly shut. Dino’s lips touch the warm skin, gentleness nearly a mockery—except he doesn’t make mockeries of these things, precious moments resting between one bloodbath and the next which litter their life. Neither does he mock with words.

“Your voice is lovely, Kyouya, thank you.”

A lover's silence promises a world of retaliations, but the heat of Kyouya's lips is fiercer still.

  
**_End_ **   



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